Love is a quiet voice
by AllyinthekeyofX
Summary: Set in the cancer arc of season 4. It's angsty/msr/heartbreak from a Mulder POV as he tries to find a way through Scully's barriers.
1. Chapter 1

LOVE IS A QUIET VOICE

By

AllyinthekeyofX

She thinks I haven't noticed. She thinks that she has successfully hidden the fact that twice in the space of twenty minutes she has briefly brought her hand up to cover her eyes which she closes against the glare of the sunlight that is flooding the office from the wide skylight directly above where she is sitting, keeping up the pretence of working, pinching the bridge of her nose before dropping her hand away guiltily, fearful that I might catch her in this moment of weakness, of frailty and that God forbid I might draw attention to it; to question her on it.

Because Scully won't admit weakness.

Not even to herself and certainly not to me.

She looks terrible today. I mean she is still beautiful, because to me she is always beautiful. But today she looks every bit as sick as we both know she is. The skilful cosmetic mask she has applied can't camouflage the paleness of her skin, the bright spots of pink on her cheeks the only bit of colour in evidence if you discount that glossy titian hair which even with my colour perception problems I'm pretty sure accurately represents itself to my hungry eyes. But her lips are pale, those glorious lips that have played a starring role in more than one of the many fantasies I allowed myself to savour when I was alone at night, hell sometimes I even savoured them right in front of her. But now, the only fantasy I ever have is that she walks in to the office, or my apartment or even the Goddamn elevator and bestows a bright smile on me and informs me that, against all the odds she is cured; that the cancer invading her is just gone and that she is no longer dying right there in front of me. Oh yeah, it's a fantasy I allow myself every fucking day even as I understand the futility of it. In fact, I can't remember the last time she actually smiled – I mean a real smile, not the weak, watered down version she occasionally manages to muster these days; that smile that hasn't really been in evidence since she began to reconcile herself to the fact that she was dying; that there will be no miracle cure.

Because, as she informed me just a few days ago, her first round of treatments have been ineffectual in knocking back the tumour that is living right in-between those incredible blue eyes, eyes which are slowly losing their sparkling zest for life and that have, on occasion seemed to look right in to my very soul; and she is beginning to disappear, to grow ever dimmer as the days go by. I can actually see it happening, and the sight of her suffering makes me fluctuate wildly between wanting to go on a fucking rampage through the hallways with my gun and just gathering her up in my arms and never letting her go. That even if I can't cure her, I might at least be able to make things better for her. Because if she doesn't let me in soon, I fear I will crash so heavily, so _completely_ that I will never get up again.

And then, for the third time, I watch her reflection in the glass of the cupboard directly opposite that affords me an unobstructed view of her without betraying my scrutiny as she repeats the action, an action I know is born of the sickening headache she is trying so desperately to hide.

I can't stand it anymore. I just can't. I can't watch her risking herself just to remain in this fucking office for even another minute.

"I'm taking you home"

I don't mean it to come out sounding quite as harshly authoritarian as it does and I'm unsurprised when she immediately straightens her posture, realising she has been busted but still not prepared to give me an inch. And even before she opens her mouth I know what's coming.

"I'm fine"

"You're not fine." I supply in a dull monotone that doesn't even sound like me.

And as expected, my words elicit a sudden spark of anger from her, that I'm sure if she actually had any real fight left in her amongst the pain and the fear and the desperation, would quickly spiral in to a full blown Scully assault that would pretty much render me flat on my ass. But those days have gone, whether temporarily or not, she just hasn't got it in her right now to summon up the response required to win her case. So instead she just sets her jaw and meets me head on, with a stare that's so full of ice I swear I feel a chill work its way down my back. And she quite eloquently tells me to get fucked without even having to open her mouth. It gives me two choices; to go all caveman on her and drag her kicking and screaming out of the office – an action that in all probability, sick or not, will elicit her pulling her gun and shooting a hole right through me – or, to appeal to her rational side.

 _Because she knows._

Deep down she knows she doesn't want to be here. Hell I don't even want to be here. I want to be covering her with soft blankets and watching her sleep and stroking her pain away, I want her to allow me the most basic human response of wanting to help someone I love when they are hurting. So far, aside from a few moments of weakness right back when she was first diagnosed, she hasn't allowed anyone in far enough to even begin to attempt to give a damn about her, to help her get through this; to _love_ her. The patented Dana Scully barriers that form an impenetrable wall around her and which are probably the only things that have actually got stronger as the terrifying months have passed us by, in full force today, tomorrow and probably right up until the point she takes her last breath while I waste precious time searching for the sledgehammer required to get through them.

So I try another approach, one which I know is slightly below the belt because I know she hates to see me hurting just as much as I do her; I decide to lay on the guilt.

Raising myself out of my chair I cross the few feet that separate us, which, by the way she emotionally shrinks away from me, may as well be bridged by miles, ignoring the way she looks at me, pleading silently with me to please not do this, to please not make her _feel._ Because if I make her acknowledge my own pain, it will render her totally unable to keep hiding her own; it's emotional blackmail on my part and I am more than conscious that I am using our past history against her, our friendship, the fact that this woman will do just about anything to stop me hurting. But frankly it's a means to an end and right now, desperation outweighs the guilt.

Even as she goes rigid in her chair, she knows what's coming and for a second, the expression on her face almost makes me falter; to simply return to my side of the office and just allow her to do what she thinks she needs to do. Because she looks afraid suddenly, like an animal trapped in a cage, knowing that there is no means of escape, and if I weren't so desperately worried about her I would hate myself for evoking such a heartbreaking response from her; for disregarding her barriers and getting right in to her personal space.

Do I have a right? Probably not; but I do it anyway.

And as I slide my palm against her neck, stroking a path along the sharp line of her jaw, to the softness of her cheek where I gently trace small circles with my thumb, begging her with my touch to please not do this; to not keep insisting she is fine when she patently isn't, I literally see her start to come undone, as she fights an internal battle with herself to not break under my touch. But despite her weak attempt, against her will, there is just the slightest returned pressure as she leans slightly in to my caress, craving the comfort that for so many reasons she won't admit she needs.

"Please Scully." And this time my voice is soft, slightly wavering as I feel my eyes begin to burn. "Please just let me take you home."

She tries to drop her head then, to break eye contact, to hide the sudden tears that instantly film her eyes, ashamed and needing to hide them from me, hide them from herself even. But I maintain the pressure, refusing to allow her to withdraw from me this time; because I'm done, I'm done with this exhausting charade that we play out every damn day. I can't do it anymore.

"Okay?"

The first tear escapes it's confines as she closes her eyes, slumping in her seat, all pretence just gone in a single ragged sigh that looks to almost rip her apart as I begin to find a way through the walls, rewarded by the almost imperceptible nod of her head and when she finally opens them again, she looks so tired; so damn tired of everything and everyone as the fight literally drains away from her, laying her bare before me, the vulnerability that she tries so hard to hide is now on show and I know she hates it; hates for me to see it because the Scully of even six months ago would go to any lengths to hide this part of her. But that woman is no longer here; she hasn't been here for a very long time and the realisation wants me to start punching my fists through the walls at the fucking raw injustice of it all. That this is happening to her; my partner of four years who has stood side by side with me through every horror imaginable and who, by her allegiance is now slowly losing herself in increments as this manufactured disease gathers pace; unstoppable, unfathomable and unthinkable in its cruelty.

One of Scully's hands slowly slides atop my own. It feels cold and that fact alone sends a new jolt of worry ricocheting through my body because it's a warm summer's day. She shouldn't be cold; because cold means dying, cold means dead.

"Please take me home Mulder"

Continued part 2

Notes – I wrote this today for a lot of reasons that I will keep to myself. I will just say that sometimes writing is the only way to clear my head. There is a part 2 to this which I will write either later tonight or tomorrow. Please review – I've had a shitty day lol


	2. Chapter 2

LOVE IS A QUIET VOICE

By

AllyinthekeyofX

PART 2

It doesn't take me long to close up the office for the day, it's a skill born from years of practise, when having to rush away suddenly in pursuit of God knows what, necessitated a rapid mental checklist that I could run through in my sleep. It's only mid afternoon but I already know I won't be coming back today because whether Scully wants it or not, whatever arguments or rapier sharp glances she throws my way, just for once I refuse to let her be alone.

Tomorrow she can retreat back as far as she likes behind those damn walls. But today, _just for today_ , she's mine. I need to at least attempt to re-connect with her because I know that somewhere along the way, the fear and the hurt and the uncertainty has driven a giant wedge between us and right now, we are about as separate as we've ever been. And I'm not stupid, I'm a profiler for Gods sake and although I try not project that ability too much on her, there are times when I just can't help it; just as I can't help turning it inwards on myself. Someone once told me that I think too much and with hindsight they were probably right because all the thinking in the world doesn't adequately translate in to action and these last few months I've probably _thought_ a hell of a lot more than I've actually _done._

The fact that it's unknown territory isn't an excuse any more and the time for cowardly procrastination is long gone. Because I've tried to give her space, tried to give her opportunity to let me know what she needs, how I can be there for her just as we always have been in the past. But there's been nothing, or at least nothing but tiny snippets on her terms that catch me by surprise and just add to my confusion and ineffectiveness; where instead of picking up on her verbal cues I have just allowed my frustration of this whole situation to cloud my every judgement and response.

Just a few days ago I stood and dismissed her attempts to open up to me, to share her fears as we wrapped up the whole Harold Spueller mess, listened to her forcing out the admission that she had seen something only afforded to the dying, eyes downcast, shimmering with unshed tears that she always tries so hard to keep private. And did I offer her comfort? Did I even attempt to allay her fears or answer that burning need within me to just grab her right there and then and crush her against me so that she might gain the release she needed?

Did I fuck.

I just stood there, so angry that she could even stand there before me and admit to sharing a vision of the dead in the same way as one who was himself dying, that my denial kicked in full force and I just dismissed her. Maybe if I'd had some warning I could have processed it but she had spent the last few weeks assuring me she was fine – always fucking fine – even when blood was pouring from her nose or her pupils were dilating from the sheer agonising misery she felt when in the grip of a headache whilst she waited for the pills she would try to furtively slip in to her mouth when she thought I was looking elsewhere. to finally kick in. And so that one moment where her walls had crumbled before me, when she finally admitted that in fact, she wasn't fine at all, I just didn't know what to do with it other than to throw it right back at her with meaningless, baseless accusations; making it all about me as usual because it was just so much less painful than acknowledging the meaning behind her words.

And as she walked away from me that night, I knew that finally, she had reconciled herself to the fact that actually, it was far less painful to just say nothing; to carry on going it alone.

I'm not proud of myself. In fact that night I think I sank about as low as I was going to go and even though I vowed to make amends to her the next day, when it came right down to it, I didn't. We just pretended it hadn't happened; in the same way we always do when we think it's something that might actually elicit some semblance of actual emotional affirmation towards one another, emotion we have become adept over the years at locking tightly within ourselves. Never to be spoken of or acknowledged for fear of the repercussions that might come crashing down upon us; as though any potential backlash could ever be any worse than what we have now.

Because since leaving the office, Scully hasn't said one fucking word to me, hasn't looked in my direction other than to briefly and curtly shake her head when I asked her if she wanted to stop for anything on the way home; if she needed anything. But of course she's Dana Scully and she never needs anything right? I know she is angry with me, just as I know she is even angrier at herself over the brief moments of weakness she allowed me to elicit from her back at the office; in fact I truly believe, as I glance across at her profile, rigid and uncompromising as she stares fixedly through the windscreen at the traffic ahead of us, that right now she probably hates me.

Well that's fine. Because deep down, if I'm completely honest with myself, there's just a tiny part of me that hates her too; hates the fact that after everything we've been through she doesn't trust me enough to let me in. The flipside to that of course is the fact that I love this woman with every cell in my body and the thought of losing her – when I allow myself to think of it of course – absolutely fucking paralysis me on levels I didn't think were even possible. It steals my breath, numbs my body and chips away at my soul. Because she is a part of me now, and like oxygen I need her to survive; how will I even carry on when she's not here? because while loss has always been a prominent feature in my life I realised a long time ago that compared to losing her, they have been relatively easy to bear. Because she has somehow become entwined within me; a light to guide me home through the darkest days when I feel like everything is hopeless, and I just can't lose her, _most especially while she is actually still right here with me._

Right now though, as I gently coast the car to a halt in front of the building my partner calls home, you could quite literally cut the atmosphere with a knife. Because sick or not, weakened or not, there isn't a woman on this planet who can project just how pissed off she is without even needing to open her mouth as she can and even though I know it's a response born of fear, it doesn't make it any easier to take. Nor does the fact that she cranks it up a notch as, instead of killing the engine I glance over my shoulder, put it in to reverse and park in one of the empty spaces; it's an action that elicits a tired sigh from her that doesn't quite fit with her carefully maintained annoyance.

"I think I can make it from here Mulder..."

Of course I ignore her; because I'm just so sick of this shit.

Instead I exit the car and when she makes no move to follow me, I simply turn and start heading for the wide double doors that lead to her apartment; a course of action which, as I knew it would, immediately causes her to wrench the car door open and follow me. I slow my pace just enough to allow her to catch up with me but I don't stop until I reach the pristine white door that I have stood in front of a thousand times since I have known her and on a couple of memorable occasions, kicked my way right through it to get to her. I'm fully prepared to do exactly the same today, albeit without the actual splintering wood part of the deal; I don't wait for an invitation. I have my key already out and still ignoring her, I fit it in to the lock, giving it a savage twist and pushing the door inwards. I allow her to enter first; my only concession so far of the afternoon, before following right behind and as expected she attempts to face me down, her blue eyes flashing as she crosses her arms over her breasts, an action that couldn't block me out any more effectively that if she started stacking bricks and mortar right there on the polished hardwood floor between us.

"I don't remember inviting you in Mulder"

"You didn't" I respond, throwing my keys on to the small table that resides just to the left of the doorframe and watching as they slide across the smooth surface, teetering on the edge but not quite falling. The parallel between those keys and our relationship at this moment doesn't escape me.

"Well, I think I'd like to be alone so if you don't mind..."

I don't let her finish though and I know I'm probably overstepping the mark with her by several feet. But I just don't care anymore; I don't care how pissed off she gets with me because we have reached such an impasse that if we don't at least attempt to get past it, we may as well just give the hell up on each other; and I'm not ready to do that.

So I step towards her and rest my hand on her shoulder, gently stroking my way down her upper arm before allowing my hand to fall away, trying desperately to let her know that it's okay; even if she thinks it isn't.

"But I do mind Scully."

Continued part 3

Notes – It's got away from me a bit lol. I have no idea how long it will be. At least one more part. Maybe more. The muse, she knows but isn't saying and please review because in the words of Mrs peacock she's Honnngrey.

Thanks to Crispita as always. :D


	3. Chapter 3

LOVE IS A QUIET VOICE

By

AllyinthekeyofX

CHAPTER THREE

Just for a moment I expect Scully to argue with me, to tell me to get the hell out of her apartment; to stop being such a presumptuous fuck and there's actually a part of me that hopes she does. Because it will at least give me some kind of evidence that she hasn't given up completely; that her spirit is still in there somewhere fighting to get out; even though it will speak to emotion, raw emotion that she keeps so tightly drawn inside her; because after all, emotion equals weakness; or at least in her book it does.

And briefly, her eyes flash across at me and she shifts slightly, as though she is about to take a step forwards, to take control and regain her territory, igniting a fire that for a mere moment in time returns her to me; the woman who _fights_ , not the watered down version who seems to be dying even more from the apathy than the actual tumour living inside her. Because she's fine isn't she? Always fine. Because fine is _good_ and fine is _safe_ even though _fine_ is a million miles away from what she actually is. But then she just stops. Literally just stops and that brief moment of animation is gone, replaced with a tired resignation that makes my stomach clench involuntarily as I realise once again as I have realised on innumerable occasions that she is dying; that she is withdrawing from me in degrees but this time I also gain a tiny measure of clarity – that by denying me access she is protecting me as much as she is protecting herself, because maybe, just maybe, losing her will hurt me less if she can just make me hate her a little before she leaves.

"Scully..."

But she holds up a hand before passing it briefly over her eyes. Oh Christ, the headache. _The fucking headache._ The reason I brought her home in the first place and which, in my self-absorption I'd actually forgotten about. And right then I feel like the biggest shit in the universe because I'm playing mind games with her when she is in pain; instead of trying to alleviate it, to help her, to offer comfort, I am mentally dissecting her internal rationale.

It's a fine moment for me and one to add to all the other fine moments I've amassed over the years.

She is swaying ever so slightly on her feet, almost imperceptible but now I've actually taken the time to open my eyes and truly notice, it's obvious that, while not dizzy exactly, she is clearly feeling a little unsteady; a combination probably of the pain, the exhaustion and most likely the medication taken on top of a lack of real food. She has dropped probably around fifteen pounds in weight during the recent punishing bout of chemo and radiotherapy and with no one around to encourage her to eat; to find something she actually _wants_ to eat, I'm guessing that she probably _doesn't_ eat. It's not something I'd really considered before. And as always I just don't know what to do; getting her here was the easy part but I find myself paralysed in front of her, waiting for a verbal cue from her that I know isn't going to materialise while at the same time wanting so badly to offer her something, _anything_ , that my hands are literally clenched in to fists at my side.

I am painfully aware that I don't know how to help her; that I am so emotionally stunted that because I can't break this down in to digestible chunks of cause and effect, can't categorise her in to neatly transcribed behavioural profile, can't rationalise what is happening to her, that in fact, I am failing her on every level imaginable because even if she won't let me in I should at least be able to vocalise something to offer her a tiny shred of comfort.

Maybe she sees me struggling, I don't know. But she drops her eyes down to the floor, avoiding me again, embarrassed almost.

"I need to lie down Mulder. Stay or go. Whatever."

And that's when I hear it. The slight inflection in her voice that tells me she wants me to stay. That even if she can't bring herself to admit it, the subconscious desire not to be alone outweighs the conscious one to keep hiding. She has given me a choice when of course there is no choice to make.

 **XXXX**

I am smart enough- _just-_ to give her the space I know she needs, that she is drained both emotionally and physically and as she retreats to the bedroom I know that putting that physical barrier between us is actually the right thing to do for both of us at the moment. She knows I'm here and I _know_ sheknows I'm here and for the moment that's enough to offer us both a measure of comfort; so after wandering in to the kitchen to make myself a coffee, using the strong Columbian blend she keeps in just for me, I return to the living room and just sit, warming my hands around the mug as I sip the burning liquid.

I don't switch the TV on; in fact I don't really do anything because Scully's apartment has always had an effect on me that I've never really been able to fathom despite the amount of times I've been here. It calms my mind, allows me to just empty myself of the myriad of thoughts that usually jostle for position inside my brain, a brain that hardly ever switches off. But when I'm here, surrounded by the essence that is my partner, I always find myself quieting. Maybe it's the decor I don't know; and while I'm not exactly blessed with creativity when it comes to interior furnishings even I can recognise the care, love and meaning that Scully has poured in to every room of this place. From the personal and sometimes quirky nick-nacks that grace every surface of the honeyed antique wood furniture to the many different lamps that mean the lighting can be adjusted to perfectly mirror the mood of the moment. Even now, even as sick as she is, her home is spotless, tidy and ordered which now I think of it, describes Scully herself pretty well. My apartment on the other hand is a cluttered mess most of the time; a haphazard collection of thrown-together possessions that don't really mean anything much to me. I'm not one for material comforts and my living space is barely even functional and certainly I could never classify it as a home. I use Scully for that. _She_ has become my home; my safe place, a place that can always be relied upon to offer a sense of peace in my often chaotic life. She is the blanket I wrap around myself against the bitter chill of life, my centre, my touchstone who grounds me when no one else can and I know that had she not walked in to my life, I would have pressed the self-destruct button long ago. Hell, even _since_ I met her my finger has hovered dangerously close to it on occasion, but she has always been there to pull me back from the brink. And even though I try not to, I can't help but wonder who will care enough to pull me back when she's gone.

It's a sobering thought and I push it right out of my mind because thinking about the potentials doesn't ever change the inevitable and I need to stop thinking about the 'what ifs' all the time.

Half an hour has passed since Scully removed herself to the bedroom and I decide that maybe now would be an appropriate time to check on her, that enough breathing space has been afforded that she probably won't throw something at me and tell me to get the hell out.

My fears though are groundless because in actuality, the first thing I see when I softly crack the door open and peer round the jamb is my partner, facing away from me, curled up atop the bed, just about as small as she can get in a horribly tense foetal position, one hand pressed to her forehead, the other clutching the edge of the pillowcase. I know without looking that her knuckles are white and I know without seeing her face that she is crying. The sight of her quite literally freezes me to the spot because I had honestly expected her to be sleeping, not trembling like this in the midst of pain and fear and I don't know what to do. I just don't know what to fucking do to make this better for her. My every instinct says to go to her, but I hold back for just a heartbeat because she is clearly in a world of hurt and I'm terrified that my presence might make it worse. And then I hear it, the word so muffled, so broken that it is almost inaudible; but this is Scully and I think I could hear her whispering my name in a room full of people all talking at once; in fact I know I could.

"Mulder"

And I am across the room in an instant, falling to my knees on the hardwood floor so that I am almost on a level with her position on top of the bed, no longer second guessing myself as I let my instinct take over, covering the hand that is clutching at the pillowcase with mine and feeling as she transfers the pressure of her fingers from the cotton covering to my own skin. The other hand I gently cup around her jaw, carefully caressing the side of her face with my thumb, ever conscious of not hurting her more than she is hurting.

"I'm here." I whisper, wiping some of the wetness away with my thumb, smoothing the damp hair away from where it has fallen on to her face. Her eyes are bloodshot, her pupils huge and her chest is rising and falling far too rapidly as the pain renders her incapable of drawing adequate breath. She is certainly panicking at this point and while I'm in no way a medical professional, I know all about the crippling effects of hyperventilation. Enough nights where I have literally bolted upright feeling the vice across my chest, delivered by whatever nightmare chose to pay me a nocturnal visit, squeezing the breath from me, have taught me well. But in all the years I have known her, never have I seen _her_ like this. Her eyes have locked with mine, frightened and intense, their delicate colour now darkened almost to navy. Those beautiful eyes that I have lost myself in more times that I can even count.

"It...hurts"

"I know. I know it hurts but first you have to get your breathing under control okay?"

And I have no clue as to whether I'm doing the right thing or not, but I perch on the bed anyway, still maintaining as much contact with her as I can, manipulating her until she is half on my lap, her upper body pressed close to my chest, head tucked beneath my chin as I stroke her hair in a rhythmic motion that I hope will calm her, speaking soft words of reassurance, words that just somehow happen; words from my heart I guess.

"All the times you have felt anxious, all the times you have felt overwhelmed, all the times you have felt this level of pain; remember Scully that you were strong, that you made it through..."

I am rewarded as she relaxes slightly, just the merest softening of her body against mine.

"That no matter what life has thrown at you, _wil_ l throw at you or how difficult things might get, that you can survive for that one moment, nothing more and nothing less...just breathe with me Scully and trust that you can survive _this_."

My words have taken a sort of lilting cadence, whispered softly, so softly, reminding me of the night I held her as she almost disintegrated in my arms when Penny Northern died. It seems like a lifetime ago, but now, as then, my words have the desired effect and I blink back the tears as she finally takes a deep shuddering breath, pressing herself deeper in to me as I tighten my arms around her. She won't look at me. I don't expect her to and I think on some level, I _feel_ her hesitant entreaty before I hear it.

"Please stay with me."

Continued chapter four

Notes – Errrrm yeah it's got away from me a bit but I'm thoroughly enjoying myself!


	4. Chapter 4

LOVE IS A QUIET VOICE

By

AllyinthekeyofX

CHAPTER FOUR

It takes a while for Scully to stop crying and all the time she keeps her head burrowed in my chest, hiding herself from me, refusing to show me her tears and although I know that I could force her to confront this part of her that, for reasons only she knows, she is just so ashamed of, I respect her far too much to force her. The fact she trusts me enough to allow herself to shed tears in my presence is frankly, all the validation I need right now. And so I just let her do what she needs to do, feeling the warmth of her as she shudders in my arms, her small hands clenched in to fists against my chest, not bothering to hold on to me because she knows that I'm holding her tightly enough for both of us.

I don't really know how long we stay in that same position or how long she cries, my only focus is on her and on letting her ride this out because I suspect it's been a long time coming, this release that is so very much needed and it's strange but I think it's a release I also need. I've been tiptoeing around her for far too long, afraid to say the wrong thing, to do the wrong thing, allowing us to keep a distance between us that neither one of us knew how to adequately bridge; the Cancer living inside of her defining every aspect of our relationship even as it drove us apart. And so I just hold her, whispering soft words of reassurance in to her hair, platitudes that we have both used so many times to comfort and give affirmation to each other.

How long I have loved this woman I don't know; it wasn't something that happened on any conscious level, wasn't ever something I either wanted or expected to happen but I do vividly remember one morning at work I just looked across at her and suddenly couldn't imagine life without her. That without me noticing, she had silently and completely woven herself in to the threads of my fractured life and made me more complete than I ever hoped I would be. To be faced with losing her now is unthinkable which is probably why it's been so easy to deny to myself and to her that her fight is _real_ and maybe we both know now that it's a fight she can't hope to continue battling alone, sinking deeper and deeper in to herself until there is just nothing left. I can't let that happen to her; can't let it happen to us.

Her cries have stilled now although she still rests her head against my shirt, a shirt that is now damp against my skin, soaked through by the cleansing tears she has shed and slowly, gradually, she is coming back to me. I feel it in the subtle movements, as she uncurls her fingers and flattens them against my chest, allowing her to centre once again before she finally levers herself away from me, lifting her eyes to meet mine; eyes that are still bloodshot and puffy from crying for so long but to me, those eyes have never looked so beautiful because for the first time in months she isn't hiding anything from me and even though I see pain reflected back at me, a pain that lives inside both of us, I can also see a semblance of peace and even though I know she is hurting, she allows just a ghost of a smile which lifts her expression and lightens my soul in equal measure.

"Hey"

And I smile back, sliding my palms to cup her face, feeling the sharp contour of her jaw beneath my fingers as I gently smooth the residual tears from her skin, dropping a kiss to her forehead, right above the spot where her cancer resides, because maybe, just maybe, if I kiss her enough right there I will somehow excise it from her and she won't leave me.

"Hey back... You okay?"

I half expect her to answer automatically, to go right to that verbal fall- back that started all this in the first place and I'm not sure how I will react if she does. But for once, just for once she doesn't hide from me. Instead she shifts slightly to the side and leans against me again, closing her eyes as her response floats from her on the back of a sigh.

"I'm tired."

For some reason the honesty of her words tighten my chest and just for a second I am completely transfixed by the sight of her lashes, their delicate colour rich against her pale skin as she lays herself bare to me for probably the very first time in our complicated relationship, because at least for today, she trusts me enough to fall asleep in my arms, trusts me enough to take care of her while she sleeps; it is a truly humbling moment, one that elates me even as it steals my breath and momentarily stills my heart and as she sleeps against me, she relaxes fully for the first time, not even awakening when the first tear slides down my face and settles in her hair.

XXXX

EPILOGUE

It's another beautiful day and across the office, in her usual spot, Scully is bathed in the golden summer sunlight that filters through the skylight, a million glittering dust motes dancing and swirling around her and today, she looks whole once more.

By the time we both awoke yesterday, the shadows had lengthened and the whole apartment was consumed by that peculiar half-light that signifies that daylight is fading. If Native American folklore is to be believed, it's considered the most mysterious time of day, a time where we hover between this world and the next, a time when anything is possible and where magic is real. And as I lay there, with Scully spooned against my back, our bodies fitting together like pieces of a jigsaw that, in some unfathomable way, were meant to always find each other through the darkness, I truly felt a sense of wonderment. Because even if I don't always understand exactly my purpose in this life, I realise perhaps for the first time that I am destined to love her. For a day or a week or a month or years that turn in to a lifetime, we are meant to be together and by the feel of her fingers entwined with mine, holding on to me even in sleep, I know she feels it too; that through all the pain and the fear and the heartache, if we can only learn to listen to each other, to hear each other even when our voices are quiet, somehow we will be okay.

We talked last night. Really talked and I think in a small way we began to heal each other, to make amends for things past that simmered and burned within both of us, the harsh words, the unthinking words, the words we should have said but hadn't, all finally being acknowledged and then discarded. We talked of our hopes and our fears and at times we both cried at the bitter injustice of it all; but amidst the fear we also found laughter again and the laughter somehow chased the tears away.

In the soft light of Scully's apartment we connected again, discovered that really, we had been there the whole time that we just had to open our eyes enough to find each other; two lost souls who belong together, just like it's meant to be; just like it's always been.

And suddenly she is looking at me, watching _me_ watching _her_ and she smiles that soft smile at me that speaks a thousand words just for me, words I had forgotten how to hear; expressions of love, spoken in a voice so quiet that they are easily missed and just as easily crushed, because just for a moment her eyes are so full of sorrow that I forget to breathe, before just as quickly, her expression lifts again and she chases away the shadows.

"You okay Scully?"

And I know, I know before she even speaks, what her response will be

"I'm fine."

But today that's okay. Because just for today, right at this moment, I know it's the truth.

End

Notes – Thanks for reading. I think it was at this point in the show that they both really began to recognise that their feelings went far, far deeper than simple friendship or even physical attraction. I hope you enjoyed my take on it. For many reasons it's one of my favourite periods in the show's history and I think my favourite to write. I hope you enjoyed it. Please review if you can.

Ally x


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